


New York Gothic

by KamikazeSoundSociety



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Freeform, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-01 11:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 41
Words: 11,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10920774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KamikazeSoundSociety/pseuds/KamikazeSoundSociety
Summary: The untold stories, scenes, and situations set in a dark city. A collection.





	1. Photograph

 

Credence tries his best to be a good houseguest for Mr Graves. He’s up early each morning to make him breakfast, packs him a lunch to take to work, makes him dinners as lavish as he knows how – roast pork, glazed vegetables, rich sauces, rolls of freshly made bread. During the day, he cleans: washes all the windows, polishes all the picture frames, scrubs the skirting boards until his hands are red and raw. But Mr Graves has expressly forbidden him to enter the top floor of the brownstone: Credence is not allowed up there without Mr Graves accompanying him.

As he presses Mr Graves’ suits, he wonders what sort of things might be hidden away on the attic floor of the brownstone, things that must be so secret and dark that they must be hidden away in the world of magic and mystery.

One evening, when Credence has only been staying him for a month or two, Mr Graves sweeps straight up to the forbidden attic floor from the foyer. “I won’t be long,” he promises, the sweep of his thumb on the back of Credence’s wrist so light and fast he thinks he may have imagined it. “You eat, I’ll be down shortly.”

But Credence doesn’t eat. He will be polite, and wait. He fidgets anxiously in the kitchen, stirring the sauce for the lamb this way and that, shifting the glasses and the cutlery from one place to the next. In a fit of sudden boldness, he moves his place setting from opposite to beside Mr Graves’, imagining what it might be like to sit near him and feel the heat of his gaze and his body from beside him rather than from across a table.

The grandfather in the foyer clock strikes seven, then eight. Still, his host stays locked away on the tallest floor.

By ten fifteen, Credence’s stomach is making unhappy noises. Two months ago, he would have happily ignored the pangs of hunger, but the familiar feeling of hunger is as inappropriate in Mr Graves’ home as laughter was in the church. Credence stands at the foot of the stairs to the third floor, twisting his hands. _Mr Graves must be hungry too_ , he rationalises to himself. By reminding his host, he’s being a good guest, really he is.

“Mister – Mister Graves?” he calls up the stairs, much too quietly. His voice bounces and echoes in the stairwell. “S-Sir, it’s rather late, and your dinner…”

No answer. Credence sidles up one stair, gingerly, then two. When the ground beneath him does not seem to be about to swallow him whole he ascends further until he’s standing before the door that must lead to the attic. He knocks, once, twice; his hands are trembling.

“Mr Graves?” he calls. He hopes he won’t be too angry that Credence disobeyed him. The thought of Mr Graves pinning him with those dark eyes, holding him in place like a butterfly to a board, makes his stomach twist.

“Come in, Credence,” his host’s familiar voice calls from the other side.

Credence opens the door and warily takes a step within, fully expecting Satan’s chapel to be on the other side. He’s not quite certain what Satan’s church might look like; his mother’s sermons had him expecting an inverted cross, perhaps a virgin mounted upon an altar, pentagrams and runes chalked on the walls and floors.

But there are none of these things – inside, the entire attic floor stretches out, unpartitioned by walls. An enormous skylight spans the entire roof and the study is illuminated by glowing _Lumos_ orbs. Upon the wall are rows upon rows of photographs – some move like the photographs in his textbooks, others are still like No-Maj pictures. Bookshelves heaving with album books line the walls, and curious mechanical tripod contraptions – photocameras, he realises – are scattered about.

“Mister Graves,” Credence says, full of reproach, “I didn’t know you were a photographer.”

Mr Graves looks up from where he sits at a massive oak desk. His hair has come loose from its strict pomaded style, a dark strand curling gently across his forehead. “Only as a hobby,” he says. He twirls his wand and a stack of photographs – negatives, perhaps? – dances through the air to affix themselves on the wall.

Credence approaches the framed pictures on the wall. A woman in reclined on a Persian rug, staring out at him with dark, knowing eyes. A corner of her mouth is lazily curled. Her gown is so gossamer-fine that he can make out the dusky shadows of her nipples and that dark, sinful place between her legs. Her hand trails down her waist. Flushing, he turns his gaze to another – a man, this time, sitting at the edge of a lake. He is wholly undressed, and the sight of his spine in its elegant sweep from the nape of his neck to the curve of his buttocks does funny things to Credence’s insides. Another features two young men curled around one another on a chaise longue. They have eyes only for each other.

Mr Graves’ touch on the back of his shoulder makes him jump, heart hammering inside his throat.

“What do you think?” he asks, and this close Credence can see the sunburst corona of gold around his black pupils. His voice is soft and husky and Credence’s stomach is curling in a way that has little to do with hunger and everything to do with sin. “Do you like them?”

Credence nods hesitantly. “Did – did you take them all yourself, sir?”

Mr Graves pulls his eyes away from him and smiles at one of the photographs. A young woman in a garden swing smiles back at him and waves at them. “I did,” he allows. “I took up photography as a junior Auror. I find that it… calms my mind.”

Credence swallows. He glances back at the wall. The two men on the sofa seem to have fallen asleep, curled around one another like the vines of a plant.

The same boldness that made him change the place settings bursts inside him like a firework, and before he quite knows what he’s saying, he opens his mouth and says, “Would you like to photograph me, sir?”


	2. The Garden

The grounds of the Graves Estate are overgrown and wild, a contrast to the stark and elegant indoors. Credence rather prefers them, truth be told. He wandered them first on his honeymoon, and a year later, he still finds new, unexplored areas. Percival explains that it’s an unfortunate side effect of using an Undetectable Extension Charm on land – new buildings, new pathways, fed by the wild magic of the nameline, pop up from time to time. He’s wandered through entire wings of the house that have never appeared again, into bedrooms and across landings that, upon further investigation, lead nowhere at all. 

It’s during one of these afternoons when Percival is away at work that Credence is bored to tears of his studies and decides to go for a walk through the gardens. They could trap an intruder within their depths for a hundred years, but with his husband’s mark upon his palm and the ring on the fourth finger of his left hand, Credence is safe. 

He’s walking through the heady, dizzying flowers in the Eastern Garden when he spies it – an enormous glass structure, glittering gold and steel beneath the winter sun. As he draws closer he realises it’s a greenhouse, like the illustrations in his Herbology textbooks, but one that could have been built two centuries ago and untouched since. Despite the its forbidding steel frame, he feels something tugging in his chest as he sidles closer to it. The glass panels are so thick, and dusty with age, that he can’t quite see through them, but a burning curiosity has seized him and he desperately must know what’s inside. 

He completes a lap of the greenhouse, but there doesn’t appear to be an entrance. Still – he cups his hands to the glass and squints through – there is something inside – a little golden light shines inside the shadowed darkness – and, oh, is that something moving?


	3. Blossom

Credence is determined to have this happen. A dozen times before they’ve come so close but then Credence backs out at the last second, quailing before the monstrous thing between Graves’ legs. Credence’s fingers don’t wrap all the way around it. He cannot open his mouth wide enough to get it in between his lips. He instinctively averts his eyes rather than look at it straight on, pretends it isn’t as big as it seems from the tail of his gaze.

But he wants. He  _wants_. He craves the look on Percival’s face when he can’t help the tears rolling down his cheeks as he fucks himself with four fingers, scissoring out and spreading himself open against the shooting shocks that ratchet up his spine and spiral along the long bones of his limbs. He craves the way Percival’s pupils blow dark and wide when he sees the way Credence’s jaw clenches. He adores the way his head tips back at the very moment before he comes, a low animalistic growl bursting from his chest. Credence wants to make him lose control, wants him to snarl and wants his nails to rake down his back.

He wants so bad to be good for Mr. Graves.

His thighs are wide parted and Percival’s hands are on his hips, thumbs stroking over the sharp point at the front and fingertips brushing the knobs of his spine. Credence’s hands are trembling at Percival’s elbows and he’s rocking, gently, gently, a mess of lube between his legs.

“It’s okay if you can’t,” Percival says to him, low, gentle. Credence does not want his low or his gentle. He grits his teeth, huffs out a breath, and deliberately drops his body.

He can barely sink down an inch before he’s keening, eyes screwed shut, stomach fluttering. He breathes out sharp through his nose. He’s crying again, and Credence wipes his cheeks angrily.

Percival looks up at him, lips parted; Credence flushes from the intensity of his gaze. “Fuck, baby,” he groans. “You’re so pretty when you cry.” The tendons in his thighs flicker beneath Credence’s legs and he bucks up, unrestrained, uncontrolled, forcing a space for himself inside Credence’s body. Credence cries out, high.

“Oh – oh  _god_ ,” he gasps. He’s afraid to move, afraid to breathe. He is impaled, Saint Sebastian by arrows, split in two; but that’s alright, it’s fine, he will break in two but Percival will take all his broken pieces and make him whole again. Percival will fill up all his dark and hollow places, and Credence will be born anew.

“Please –  _please_ ,” he manages. He isn’t sure what he’s pleading for. Beneath him, he feels Graves’ fingers trembling against his hips.

“Want me to move, baby doll?” Percival breathes against his lips. His palms run up Credence’s waist, brushing past Credence’s navel, his waist, his nipples.

“No – no,” Credence says with a sob. “I need – need you to stay still – please – oh  _god_ , oh  _please_ , I can feel you all the way in my  _throat_  – “


	4. The Bride

Credence clings to Graves’ arm throughout the evening. He’s certain he’s making a fool of himself, and possibly his new husband, in front of his family, but Percival’s weight is so familiar and warm beside him that he can’t bring himself to move away. 

Besides, he knows what his husband’s dark eyes look like when he smiles, how his forbidding countenance lights up when he takes his first sip of coffee in the morning, how his lips flush dark when he bites them. His new family has those same heavy dark eyes, but they track him like a bird of prey tracking a field mouse. Percival brushes his thumb along Credence’s jaw, places a hot kiss to the corner of his lips. “They’re jealous,” he whispers, dark humour in his tone. “What must I have done in a previous life to deserve you, my darling?” 

Credence feels infinitely better after that, and meets his new family’s gaze unflinchingly. They look away nervously, fear flittering in the corner of their eyes of the powerful Graves paterfamilias and his strange Obscurial bride.


	5. Blaspheme

Mr Graves fixed his awful dark eyes on Credence, his whole face twisting until Credence felt like he was two inches tall and pinned to the bed like a butterfly against a card. “Your  _mother_ ,” he said, very coolly, “had a great many things to say about a great many subjects, not the least of which was that magic was a sin, too. Do you still think that?” 

Credence could only shake his head. Something in the room swirled, in the very edges of his vision. At first, he thought it was his magic, his terrible Obscurus abomination, but it smelt different – like iron, polished wood, rain, and salt. In the time it took him to identify the smells, it was gone.


	6. One Hundred

Credence knows a hundred little things about Mr Graves.

He knows the way his mouth twists at two in the morning, when his eyes flicker behind closed lids and he dreams. He knows the scent of his sweat, sharp and clean. He knows the rasp of his stubble against Credence’s bare shoulder. He knows the precise colour of his coffee each morning. He knows the exact way his breath hitches in his chest when Credence stands before him, undressed, half-lit from the light streaming in through the curtains. He knows the sound of his laughter, and its feel, as it echoes inside Credence’s chest. He knows each bump of his spine, each point of his hips, every rung of his ribs. He knows the blasphemy that crosses his lips when Credence licks between his thighs, sucking him down, swallowing deep. He knows the way he rubs his temples and the crease between his brows when he’s worried, even if he’ll never admit it. He knows the little noises he makes when Credence tugs on his hair.

Credence knows a hundred little things, but every time Mr Graves kisses him, he couldn’t remember his own name if he tried.


	7. Altar

His touch is humiliating, because he can’t help the little noises that escape him, little whimpers and whines. But he wants it so badly: Graves’ gentle hand cupping his cheek, the curl of his fingers over that sensitive point between throat and jaw, the solid weight of his arms pinning him and Credence loves it,  _loves it_ , and can’t bear when he moves away. These touches are the highest point of his week. He imagines they fill up his soul in the way sermons should, were he not such a sinful wretch.

Then one day, instead of pressing his forehead into the divot between Graves’ neck and shoulder, where he can feel the steady thud of his heart as it echoes into his bones, he tilts his head back instead and Graves’ mouth comes crashing down onto his.

 _Oh oh oh_ – it’s more than he could have ever imagined, lying in his bed at night. A bolt of lightning has struck his tongue, and he can feel its crackling fingers reach down into his throat, chasing away the dark and hollow place behind his heart. He feels holy, holy, holy.

But then Graves is moving away, recoiling from Credence and his awful, greedy hands. Credence flinches back from the look in his eyes.

“Don’t go,” he pleads, pathetic, with a hiccupping little sob. “Please – please don’t go, don’t leave me –”

“I’m sorry – oh God, I’m so sorry,” Graves gasps, stumbling back, and he disappears with a  _crack_  and a swirl of misplaced air. Credence is left alone in the alleyway off Pike street, his lips still tingling, and utterly, utterly alone.


	8. Bitter

Mr Graves is looking right at him. Credence realises, mortified, that over the course of the conversation he’s inched himself closer to the older man, and their legs are pressed together, knee to ankle. This close, he thinks, Mr Graves’ eyes do not look quite so dark. They're actually a shade of dark brown, like coffee before milk, or bitter chocolate. 

“Please, Credence,” Mr Graves says, and Credence can smell his aftershave again; at once sharp and clean and woody, and beneath that, the taste of iron and salt on his tongue, and rain on a cold day. “My name is Percival.”


	9. Capricious

Credence doesn’t like using his wand.

Percival, Tina, Newt, and Queenie have all tried to teach him. They press the applewood wand into his palm and tell him to try changing a matchstick to a needle, or make a feather float through the air, or turn a button into a beetle. Credence fails utterly at every single one of these tasks. It doesn’t feel like magic, he tries to explain, but only Queenie has the faintest inkling of what he means. Trying to turn a bar of soap into a brick is useless. There’s no  _point_. When would he ever want to turn a matchstick into a needle, when there’s a sewing kit tucked inside the living room cabinet? Why would he want to make a feather float through the air, when he can just get up and move it if he wants to?

To Credence, magic tingles in his fingers, sparks down his spine, curls in his belly like a warm and sleepy cat. He doesn’t like feeling cold, so he heats the apartment. When Miss Tina makes him tea, she uses too much sugar, so he makes it less sweet. When he’s walking through the city by Percival’s side and he sees children begging on street corners, he makes their eyes brighten and their bellies full. Why should he need to use a wand for any of it? Credence doesn’t care about Golpalott or Gamp or magical laws; he rarely wants things, but when he does, he just makes them happen.

“God, you’re incredible,” Percival breathes the first time he catches Credence growing carrots in the window box for dinner. Credence goes pink from the hungry look in his eye. Carrots, apparently, should not be able to be created from thin air, because they’re a food. It annoys Credence that magic is supposed to have all these stupid laws – why can he make a thimble from a nail, but not a carrot from dirt? It’s a stupid rule, so he cheerfully ignores it.

It tastes just as good as any non-magical carrot, anyway.


	10. Meteor

He sits with his legs crossed before the bookshelf closest to the fire and traces the spines of the books, sounding out the titles slowly and with great care, words tripping hesitantly over his lips.  _Great Magical Deeds of the 19 th Century_ –  _Animalium Magica – New Theory of Numerology and Grammatica, XVII Edition – Magical Water Plants of the North American Continent – An Encyclopedia to the Heavens_. His fingers still over the last one, and he pulls it out before he quite knows what he’s doing. The book flips open by itself and Credence gasps: an image of the night sky as he has never seen it before, masses of swirling incandescent stars tracing the page and glittering gently, spreads magnificently over a page. As he watches, a shooting star fizzles across the page to beneath his thumb. He moves his hand, but the comet has already faded beneath his fingertips.


	11. Iridescent

A strong hand grips the front of his pyjama shirt and Credence opens his eyes, startled. Mr Graves stares straight at him, the firelight reflected in his dark eyes. “Credence,” he says, quietly. 

And Credence can’t help it – he rushes forward with a terrible sob, a hot desperate press of lips and teeth and tears. He’s ruined it, he’s ruined it. Mr Graves will surely shove him away, use his magic to bind him and cast him out to the street, refuse to ever even look at him ever again – 

Only his mouth opens with a gasp, and he’s licking up into Credence’s mouth, kissing him back with just as much unrestrained passion. Credence pushes back hungrily, greedily, revelling in the plush press of his lips made softer by the rasp of his stubble against Credence’s cheek. His hands move from gripping the front of his shirt to slide around to his back, cradling the sharp wings of his shoulder blades, fingers curling into the hollow spaces between each rib. He’s drawing Credence in to him, into the circle of his arms and his embrace, mouth hot on his. Credence wails, overwhelmed, and then Mr Graves is pulling away; but only to press another soft kiss to his lips, soft now, gentle. 

“I’m – I’m sorry,” Credence says, chest still heaving. Tears spill from his eyes, running down his face, and he’s so full of foreign emotion it hurts to breathe. 

“No, no,” Mr Graves murmurs against his cheek. “Don’t apologise, sweet boy, darling, please, I thought – I thought I was dreaming, but I could never dream this. I could never dream you.” 

And then they’re kissing again, consumed. Credence gasps into his mouth, he can’t stop, he can’t stop the words from spilling out, the well of emotion in his chest overflowing, “I love you, I love you, I love you –“


	12. Rhapsody

He nips down Credence’s throat hungrily, pausing at the collarbones to lick and suck, leaving wide bruises in the shape of his mouth. The sight of his boy like this, spread out on the bed, and marked by his mouth, does wicked things to him. He continues down, stopping to press heavy bruises against his throat, his shoulders, his chest, a dying man praying for salvation.  _Mine, mine, mine,_ each bruise reads.


	13. Glaze

Credence is startled by Mr Graves dropping something into his lap, something heavy and golden. He upsets his book and it falls to the floor with a heavy  _thunk_ , losing his place.

“What – what’s this, sir?” Credence asks, picking up what Graves has given him. It’s a hand mirror – Credence has seen them before, behind the displays of glittering shops, costing more than what the entire New Salem Church might collect in an entire fortnight. The handle and frame are cold in his hand, ornate and gilded; a swirling fleur-de-lys pattern decorates the back, more gold inlaid in mother-of-pearl. The mirror’s glass, too, is beautiful – clearer than any puddle, smoother than the surface of any lake. He revises his earlier estimate: this mirror probably cost more than what the Church collected in two  _months_.Credence’s own wan face stares back at himself, pink mouth open in a small O. He snaps his jaw shut immediately.

“Communication mirror,” Mr Graves says, holding up its twin.

“Communication – ?” Credence repeats.

“Well, I thought – after last time when you had that difficulty with the  _Aguamenti_ – and since you’re still having difficulty with the  origami spell, I didn’t want to get a messenger owl – damn things make too much mess – I thought we could – communicate through these,” Mr Graves says in a great rush. Credence thinks he can detect a faint blush to his mentor’s face before the man clears his throat and says, “What do you think?”

“It’s very – pretty,” Credence says dubiously. “How does it work?”

“Oh – like this,” Mr Graves says, picking up his mirror. He exhales, the mirror fogging with his breath. In the mist, he writes  _Credence Barebone._  The last half of his name is too long for the mirror, and Mr Graves has to write _-ebone_ sloping vertically along the side of the mirror. Credence picks up his mirror, feeling awkward as he stares at his reflection, waiting for something to happen.

“Huh,” says Mr Graves, sounded puzzled. “That’s odd.”

“What’s it supposed to do, sir?” Credence asks cautiously.

“You’re supposed to write the name of the person you want to speak to on the glass, and it shows you the other person’s face,” Mr Graves explains, sounding a little put out that his demonstration hasn’t worked. “Here – maybe my mirror’s broken.”

Credence passes him his mirror, but Mr Graves doesn’t fare any better. “Hmm,” Mr Graves says, looking at him, and Credence swallows against the heavy weight of his gaze. “Try it with my name, instead.”

So Credence breathes on his mirror and writes  _Percival Graves_  in careful block print, and sure enough, the surface of the mirror swirls and Mr Grave’s face appears, staring down into the mirror just as he is now. With another puff of breath and swipe of his sleeve along the glass, the image disappears, leaving Credence’s reflection behind.

“Ah,” says Mr Graves, “Of course it doesn’t work. Credence Barebone isn’t the name you were born with, was it?”


	14. Kneel

Credence nodded, shakily, but he knew in his heart that Grindelwald had treated Mr Graves worse, and kept him captive longer, for the sake of finding and harnessing the Obscurial.  _If I’d been good_ ,  _this never would have happened_ , the thought burst in his head.  _If I’d prayed more – if I’d repented my sins earlier – if I had been kinder to my sisters and to Ma, if only I’d been_ good _–_

“Credence,” Mr Graves said, and now there was a clear tremor in his voice, “Credence, please, look at me.”

Though he desperately didn’t want him to see his ugly blotched face and trembling mouth, Credence lowered his hands hesitantly and opened his eyes.

His magic –  _ugly, black, awful_  – surrounded them. For a moment it seemed as if it were just him, sitting, and Mr Graves, kneeling beside him with a hand on his leg, cocooned inside the toxic black smoke of his magic and hidden from the world.

“I’m sorry,” Credence said to the hand on his leg, and tried very hard to think about something else to make himself feel better.

“It’s alright,” Mr Graves said. “You’re alright. You’re here now. You’re safe, Credence. Nothing will hurt you again if it’s within my power to prevent it. You’re safe.”

 _Safe_. The word tickled something inside Credence, something that had been locked away for a very long time. Safe, warm, protected. The Obscurus around them began to retreat, slowly, curling back into the dark space of his palms.


	15. Psalm

Credence knows the words well. Every evening his mother would select a verse and expound on it at length over his and his sisters’ heads, bowed, worshipful, repentant for sins they had not (yet) committed.

And yet he would not have thought verses would spring to his head at a time like this.

Stretched out on Percival’s bed, the sheets sliding up beneath his thighs, head tilted back. He is awash in heady, dizzy sensation, tumbling and soaring at once. His wrists are knotted together above his head, his eyes are covered by a wide strip of black silk, and his mouth is open. He wails and sobs and moans, back arched, toes curled, gasping for breath and pleading.

He feels no regret, because he has already repented. He has knelt before the cross and felt sick with guilt and shame for a sin so dark and carnal it can only be carried out in sightless night.

_i cried out to him with my mouth;_

_his praise was on my tongue._  


	16. New York Gothic

They curl up on the armchair together. Credence’s forehead is tucked into the hollow space between Percival’s clavicle and his shoulder; his hot breath warms the cold space between his lungs. Percival’s legs are drawn up, cradling Credence between them. Dressed as they are, in the sombre black funeral robes, it is difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins.

“He wore your face,” Credence whispers.

“I know,” Percival replies, just as quietly.

The clock ticks on the mantel. The photographs on the wall are asleep.

“How can I ever trust you again?” Credence asks him.

“I’m sorry,” Percival says. “I don’t know.”

When one exhales, the other inhales. Above them, through the skylight, the sun is rising over New York.


	17. Scenes of a Domestic Nature, Part I

Every morning, Credence wanders Percival’s flat, drifting like an aimless ghost. In the bathroom, his razor sits upon the counter, his aftershave left uncapped. In his bedroom, the wardrobe door is still open. On the kitchen table, the glittering dregs of a coffee sit in the bottom of a cup, the remains of a potion to heal his mind. But Credence pretends it isn’t something so banal; he swirls the cup in his hand, still warm from Graves’ touch, and pretends he drank stars that morning.

* * *

The books in the Graves family library are not just invaluable to Percival because of their content, but because of their appearance, as well. Each book of the million is lovingly bound in silk and leather, bright patterns swirling across the shelves, each book carefully preserved. Some of these books have no counterpart elsewhere in the world. He guards his library like a dragon might his hoard, and to him, they are just as valuable. The only one allowed within the library without Percival standing guard is Credence.

* * *

One of the many packages Newt sends him from around the world includes the shed feathers of the Sou-marie bird of the Caribbean; slender pale pink feathers, the end of each vane dipped in gold that sparkles as he turns them over in his hands. He makes quills out of them, pausing occasionally as he writes letters to admire the feathers.

* * *

Newt introduces him to the physalis fruit, sent tucked in an envelope between the pages of his latest letter. The taste is sharp and tart on his tongue, blooming in his throat like an echo of the calyx that guarded the soft cherry fruit.

* * *

Miss Queenie serves him tea in china so fine the sun shines through, soft purple and pink and blue. The cup that sits on the saucer before him is the most delicate thing Credence has ever seen in his life, and he’s too afraid of breaking the teacup in his clumsy hands to consider taking a sip.


	18. Silence

The first time Queenie meets a Silent, she is fifteen years old and has just begun Fourth at Ilvermorny. 

She can’t hear a single word, image, or emotion coming from Professor Valentina Sospes, her new Fourth Magical Defence professor. At first she finds it wildly confusing, like trying to listen to a forest sing, but soon becomes to appreciate the silence. She isn’t used to that strange quiet in her mind unless she is completely by herself. She volunteers to help Professor Sospes with setting up her classroom, with marking, with grounds patrols. She’s sure she thinks she’s just another silly schoolgirl with a crush, but she doesn’t care. Being in the company of her Magical Defense Progessor soon comes to be the most peaceful part of her day, now that Tina has graduated and is away learning how to become a real Auror. 

Every once in a while, once a term or so, Professor Sospes -  _please, Queenie, class isn’t in session, call me Val -_ invites Queenie to her office for tea and a chat. When this happened with other Professors, it felt forced. Checking up on the little orphan girl, another awkward duty. But Queenie relishes the conversations with Valentina, taking her cues from the way her smile crinkles the space beside her eyes, her frowns etching lines on her forehead. Queenie likes listening to her talk, sipping endless cups of hot tea, the chance to finally be alone in her head but not by herself.


	19. Demonic

“May I have a flyer?”

_Y-Yes sir._

“Second Salemers, eh? What do your lot preach?”

_There are witches, sir. They can set a curse on you, sir. They marry the Devil, sir, and they carry out his evil deeds in the world against the good and God-fearing people._

“And how does one spot a witch, exactly?”

_I – I – Sometimes they have the mark of the Devil upon them, sir. A witch is wicked. A man or a woman._

_(Ma says I might be a witch. The Devil is inside me, sir. I’m wicked, sir. You’d better get away before I turn you into a witch, too.)_

Dark eyes peered back at him. There was no disgust, or incredulousness, or annoyance. They assessed him for a long moment, before he saw something quite unexpected:

Compassion.


	20. Wail

Graves kicks his ankles apart nonchalantly, and then pulls his shirt from his trousers with ease. Another casual wave of his hand and Credence’s waistcoat disappears, reappearing on the table, folded neatly. Credence shivers, and it has very little to do with the chill October air. His chest feels very hot and then very cold on the next breath.

Graves undoes the lowest button of Credence’s shirt, and then the next, and the next. Credence’s stomach quivers, leaping away from the man’s fingers. Graves make a little noise like he’s just bitten into a sweet pastry, and the back of his knuckles are ghosting along Credence’s stomach, then around to his waist and flank. The other hand curls around his hip; Mr Graves’ hand brackets his pelvis easily, thumb pressed against the point of his hip and fingertips skimming the notches of his spine. Though the touch is feather-light, Credence can feel every bump, every hair on the back of his hand, burning hot against his skin.

His fingers trace the long rungs of his ribs, from their origin at his spine and curling around to his front, beginning with the lowest just above his navel and climbing steadily. It feels – it feels quite nice, actually, and Credence feels his shoulders uncoil, the tight muscles at the nape of his neck relaxing, and his head tilts back.

But then Graves skips the last few ribs – Credence’s shirt is fully unbuttoned now – and his fingers skim over his nipple. There’s a sharp, sudden bolt – something arcs down inside him, a force connecting the point where Graves has touched him and the secret place between his legs.

Credence’s eyes fly open and he spasms straight up. “Oh!” he cries.

Graves looks startled for the barest moment, but then his mouth curls into a smirk. “Sensitive one, are you?” he asks. It’s that same tone as before, that makes Credence want to sink to the ground and bury his head in his hands; nearly kind, almost gentle, but there is something in the tone that makes Credence want to skitter away.


	21. Olympus

There are worse ways to spend one’s December, Percival supposes. He could be locked away in the attic of his New York brownstone. He could be shut away in his office at MACUSA, slaving thanklessly over paperwork and trying not to kill the dimwitted Junior Aurors. He could be spending long and lonely nights staring at the wall and drinking Vanishing Roanoake Whiskey, dead-eyed. 

In his apartment overlooking the Old Town Square in the centre of Prague, Percival rolls out of bed and walks over to a tray on the side cabinet, fully nude. He pours himself a cup of black Turkish coffee from the silver caraffe; he swirls it in the glass and takes a measured sip, savouring it as it rolls over his tongue and down his throat. He can indulge as much as he wants to, now. There is nowhere for him to be except right here. 

“Come back to bed,” his lover says grumpily. Percival, ever considerate, flicks his fingers to draw the curtains tighter over the windows, making sure the room is in absolute darkness. 

“Not all of us operate on New York time,” he calls over his shoulder. He takes another sip of his coffee, pretending to be unaware of the way Gellert’s eyes skip up his long legs, the elegant lines of his back and shoulders, his ass. He knows how good the candle light makes him look, bathes his scars in soft light and exaggerates the ripple of muscle beneath his skin. “Don’t you need to be up soon? I can’t be late to work.” 

He drains his cup and sets it down on the cabinet; it disappears with a muted  _pop_ , evidence of well-trained House Elves that are so much more common here in Europe than in America. Percival appreciates not having to expend his magic on useless household chores. He has more important things to use his magic for. 

“You’re always the first one in,” Gellert gripes. “Really, it’s a pity not a single one of your Aurors has your work ethic. Well,” he says, consideringly, eyeing Percival up and down as he turns back to bed, “Goldstein, perhaps. But then she’s too –  _idealistic_.” He says the word distastefully. 

Percival makes a face, sliding back between warm sheets. Gellert gathers him up and Percival nestles into that familiar hollow beneath his shoulder. More gently than his reputation would suggest, the Dark Lord turns and nuzzles into Percival’s hair, grown long in the weeks since he’s come to Prague. He presses a kiss onto the crown of his head, and Percival hides a smile against the soft skin of his chest. “Sentimental,” he murmurs, an echo to that night long ago in the trenches of Belgium, 1915 and splattered in blood and mud and glory that tasted like death and decay beneath a thin veneer of golden adulation. 

Eleven years later and here he is, the silent traitor.  _Where Is Grindelwald?_  the newspapers read. Percival smiles as he reads the headlines each morning.  _I can show you the shape of his teeth_.  _I can show you ten bruises in the shape of fingertips, the span of his hands. He is here, with me._  He wants to show them off to the world, but restrains himself. He has restrained himself for over a decade, now. It will not be long before he can raise the lantern and light the way into a new era, the first to kneel at his lover’s feet and the first to drink from his cup. 

Anticipation shudders through him and Gellert chases it with his fingertips, pressing hungry kisses in its wake. When he leaves for New York, disguised once again, Percival watches lazily, sore and fucked out, a new set of bruises adorning his body. He wears them like an emperor might wear a wreath of laurels, graced by the touch of a god.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [L. M. Biggs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/L_M_Biggs/pseuds/whileyoustillcan) ([whileyoustillcan ](http://whileyoustillcan.tumblr.com)on tumblr) wrote a beautiful continuation of this which may be found [here.](http://whileyoustillcan.tumblr.com/post/160850176495/kiss-ask-grindelwaldgraves-20)


	22. Pas de Deux

He leans forward across the desk, catching Credence’s chin in his strong grip before the boy can turn back to the safety of his books.

Credence goes very, very still; a rabbit, paralysed before its predator. He can feel a heavy flutter in his throat. He swallows, but Percival’s hand is heavy, palm over his throat. His fingers are just firm enough that he doesn’t dare turn his head away.

Percival smiles, and it’s the same contradiction as the casual roughness of his hands. Sharp and soft, fierce and gentle, kind and yet unyielding.

“You’ve been dancing around it since you arrived,” he says, rubbing the pad of his thumb on the plush fullness of Credence’s lower lip. Credence has never been so aware of anything in his life as he is of that tiny square of flesh where Percival sweeps back and forth, once, twice. “I know what you want, Credence.”

Credence’s tongue darts out, brushing his finger so quickly and so rapidly it’s like a butterfly’s kiss. He tastes iron, and salt, and beneath that, something deeper and sharper that makes him want to consume Percival whole, gather him into his arms and press him into the hollow space underneath his ribs where the Obscurus had once lived and now is empty.


	23. Caravela

The sunlight yawns through the curtains, bathing the room in the rosy gold of pre-dawn. Being summer, they’ve left the window cracked open; a breeze blows through, and the curtain flutters. A sunbeam falls directly onto Percival’s upturned face. 

“Ugh,” he says, and rolls over, drawing the covers up over his head. 

This action, unfortunately, pulls the blanket off Credence. He squeaks indignantly and scrunches up his face, reaching out and patting his husband to try to get his blanket back. 

Percival has no intention of letting this happen. He makes a happy little  _mmnnnnm_  noise, sighing, legs drawn up and feet tucked in, a perfectly warm burrito of sleepy happiness. 

“You stole my blanket,” Credence informs him crossly. The effect is rather spoiled by the fact that all the hair on the left side of his head is sticking straight up. 

“Sorry,” the pile of blankets formerly known as Percival mumbles, but makes no move to return it. 

Credence moves closer, wrapping his arms and legs around his husband like a particularly persistent limpet. “Give it  _back_ ,” he whines. Percival’s face emerges from the blankets and pecks his nose with a kiss. 

Credence takes advantage of this to slide his hands into the hole created in the blanket, making a happy little  _ahhh_  as Percival presses a kiss to each one of his scarred palms. He lifts the blanket and Credence scoots in, pressed heart to heart with the man he’s promised to love above all others. Not that it’s a great hardship, exactly; Percival nuzzles a series of sleepy little kisses into his hair. Credence wraps his arms around him, relishing the quiet tangle of limbs and the soft warm smell of happiness and Saturday morning indolence. 

They fall back asleep like that, curled up and content in each other’s sleepy embrace.

 


	24. Gula

Credence smiled up at him sleepily. “Thank you, sir. Percival,” he amended. 

Percival smiled, his teeth gleaming in the darkness of the corridor. “Goodnight, Credence.” 

Perhaps it was the late hour, and Credence was still addled from being woken up. But Mr Graves’ face was so open in a way he’d never seen it before. His eyes were soft, and there were the faintest of crinkles beside his eyes. He had a kind face, Credence thought, stern, but kind. The sort of man who would be morally good, and right, even when the circumstances made it difficult. Something inside Credence jumped and he couldn’t help it; he leaned forward to press a shy kiss upon Mr Graves’ lips. 

He meant for it to be quick, just an expression of thankfulness and adoration, but Mr Graves made a noise deep in his throat that sounded like a surprised “ _Oh_ ,” and one hand to rest against the nape of his neck, pulling him close, gently, adoringly. 

Credence meant to pull back but Mr Graves – Percival chased the kiss, following him back so he could continue. Soft, gentle, sweet. Credence felt the kiss fill him up, not just Percival’s lips against his own but searing his somewhere inside. On his soul, perhaps. Credence felt himself relaxing into it, growing used to the soft warmth, parting his lips tentatively and  _oh, that felt nice_ , the hot swipe of Percival’s tongue against his lips. He felt hot, electric. The hair on the back of his arms and along his neck stood on end, hot golden sparks bursting behind his eyelids like the stars on that page in that book. He kissed him back, copying the gentle movements of his tongue but pressing up against him.  _More_ , he tried to convey without speaking.  _More, please, more_.


	25. Stargaze

Thinking of Mr Graves isn’t anything new for Credence. In his quiet moments, it’s all he does. When his hands are in the sink, sleeves rolled up, he sees Mr Graves’ white smile inside the soap suds. When he’s standing on a street corner, handing out pamphlets in the rain, he sees the wave of Mr Graves’ hand in between the raindrops, the gleam of his shoes in the reflections of the puddles. 

When he lies in bed at night, he sees Mr Graves’ dark eyes staring down at him through the night. The moonlight streaming through the window might be the silver at his temples, or the soft magic of his hands against Credence’s, soothing, healing. The wind howling outside might be the rumble of his voice against Credence’s temple. The blanket curled around Credence’s body might be his arms, holding him close.


	26. Grotesque

He tucks the blankets around his little love, languid, liquid in his sleep. He curls up against him, tucking one of Credence’s long legs between his, arms wrapped around his chest, cheek pressed over his heart. He falls asleep like that, rocked on the waves of his angel’s breathing, the tide of his pulse beneath his ear. 

The monster in his chest is silent.


	27. Luxuria

_Louder_ , he says. _And you will address me as sir._

_Yes sir_ , he gasps, lines of fire licking the backs of his thighs. He’s trying hard to stay still, fingers knotted into the soft fabric of the sofa, but he keeps rocking up onto his toes and back down. _I’m sorry, sir._


	28. Scenes of a Domestic Nature, Part II

After dinner, they sit in front of the fireplace. Credence has a novel open on his chest, his head in Percival’s lap; every once in a while, he turns a page. Percival is pretending to read through a series of Auror reports, but he isn’t taking in any more than every sixth word or so. His attention is focused on the fey, bewitching creature laid out beside him. Credence nibbles absently at his lower lip, the crease on his brow shallowing and deepening in turns as he reads.

* * *

In New York, there was too much smog at night to ever see the sky clearly; at the Estate, he’s free to spend hours in the evening on the balcony, matching the constellations in the sky to those drawn in Percival’s old Astronomy textbooks, until his husband comes to lead him to bed by the hand.

* * *

Queenie makes him tea as they sit outside in the garden, her wand moving like a falling leaf, the teacups, saucers, and teapot following as they dance silently through the air. Out here in the garden, they have the freedom to dance properly, tame little waltzes and wild tangos, before pouring out their contents and settling back onto the table as if nothing ever happened.  

* * *

Credence has no more nightmares. There are no more mysterious gas explosions. Sometimes he wakes up, three in the morning, the pillow beneath his cheek wet and a monster sitting atop his chest. He imagines there are white eyes staring down at him from the darkness.

Percival nuzzles him sleepily, tugs him a little closer, presses a soft kiss to the skin of his bare shoulder. Credence winds his arms around him and closes his eyes.


	29. Lacquer

Privacy is impossible with a sister who sticks to your side like a shadow, able to listen to every passing though inside your head. In the room she shares with her sister, Tina has no space to herself.

She has become masterful at concealing her real thoughts; she makes up little codes, plays little games with herself inside her head until  _door_  is a synonym for  _cunt_  and  _tree_  is a synonym for  _cock_  and  _window_  is a synonym for  _nipple._   _I wonder what that word means,_  she’ll think to herself, innocent and inoffensive, but really she means  _I wonder what it would feel like if he kissed between my thighs_.  _I wonder what it would feel like if I knelt before him and sucked his cock. I wonder what it would feel like if he palmed my breast, hands soft on my skin. Would he be gentle? Would he be mean? Which would I like best?_

Queenie doesn’t suspect a thing.

But Tina can only cross and uncross her legs so many times, focus determinedly on every use of Mandrake leaves recited over and over in her head, before she slips up and imagines what Director Graves looks like beneath his smart robes. Queenie shoots her a little look, every once in a while, but she very sweetly doesn’t say anything. She goes to bed early, and Tina stays up,  _Lumos_  cast from her wand, working on Auror reports atop her bed.

She waits until Queenie’s breathing is slow and even. She waits until Mrs Esposito has gone to bed and the lights in the hall dim. She waits until the clock in the far-off square chimes eleven times, then twelve, then one.

“ _Nox_ ,” she whispers. She places the wand on the table.

Hesitantly, she runs her hands down her body, skimming over the soft flannel of her pyjamas. The skin of her belly is warm and it trembles under her palm. She skips further down, brushing against the gusset of her underwear, trailing a single finger down the side and feeling the short curls of hair and she luxuriates in the sensation, so unlike the soft hair on her head. She presses the heel of her palm down and grinds it against herself. She has to bite down on the inside of her cheek.

Slowly, she tugs aside the underwear and rubs her fingers over herself. She makes a tiny little noise, a surprised little squeak, because the skin is unlike anywhere else on her body, slick and sweet and so lovely. She keeps going, trailing down to press gently against her entrance. It feels nice enough, but she prefers other things; she reverses her direction and wanders up instead.

She misjudges the sensitivity of her clit and jumps a little, muscles in her legs seizing involuntarily and biting down on another noise that bursts from her chest. Hot sparks flash behind her eyes and it feels so good, oh  _god_ , it’s been too long. She clamps her lip firmly between her teeth and does it again, parting herself with two fingers and grinding against the heel of her palm, again, again. Hot slick drips from her fingers and her underwear is probably ruined. She doesn’t care.

With her other hand she glides up her body and plucks at her breasts, soft at first, but growing bolder. She grazes her nipples with her nails, soft little swollen mounds, sensitive. She worries her nipple between the sharpest points of her nails, sensation arcing down through her, grinding herself onto her hand – god,  _god_  – she spirals up, heat and pleasure blooming in her spine, she’s lingering on the edge of some vast precipice and she’s ready to tumble down – ready to fall –

“Tina?” Queenie whispers from the bed beside her, high and breathless. “What are you doing?”


	30. Acolyte

Percival adorns Credence’s body with a dozen lovely bites and soft bruises that Credence will later trace with a sweet smile, every mark treasured. His caresses are roses blossoming across his skin, his palms the trellis from which they bloom. He savours the way Percival’s eyelashes tremble, how his hands cradle him reverently.  Each kiss against his skin is baptism, every brush of his fingertips is communion, and the look on his face when Credence sinks onto his thighs is absolution. If the worship of his body were religion, Percival is the high priest, guarding the temple of his body jealously for himself alone.


	31. Penumbra

Long, awful shudders wrack his limbs and his body. His teeth clatter together and his hands are cramped and numb. His bones ache. His hair is plastered to his skull and his hat is sodden, frigid water dripping down the nape of his neck. Such is the effort of his tremors that he’s already exhausted, not yet ten in the morning but he feels like he could sleep for the next week.

Mr Graves radiates warmth, solid and reassuring. He is a lighthouse in the night, a soft hand among thorns, forgiveness after guilt. Credence can’t help but edge closer to him, sneaking silent in between the spaces of his words. When Mr Graves takes his hands and heals them with gentle sweeps of his thumbs, a little shiver that has nothing to do with the cold runs from the crown of his head to the base of his spine.

“You’re freezing,” Mr Graves notes, brows furrowed. His lips are downturned and a fine line runs across his forehead. He glances up at Credence and Credence’s stomach swoops uncomfortably.

He breaks the gaze. “Yes sir,” he mumbles at the pavement. “Sorry sir.” He knows he should tug his hands away now, let Mr Graves keep his warmth and his magic, but the idea of returning to the bone-deep cold and away from Mr Graves hurts almost as much as the belt across his upturned palms.

“And you’re soaked to the bone,” Mr Graves adds. Credence flinches when he pulls his hand away from over his and twists his fingers – and Credence sucks in a shocked breath of air when his clothes are suddenly dry and warm. The raindrops around him evaporate harmlessly in mid-air, an inch away from his skin.

“Th-thank you, sir,” Credence says, daring to glance up from beneath his eyelashes. Mr Graves smiles and strokes his palm again, for all that his wounds are already healed. The line between his eyebrows has smoothed. Once again, his mouth is soft.

He is warmth, and kindness, and has the sort of brightness to his eyes that makes everything else in Credence’s life seem dim.


	32. The Ribbon

Inside the second-to-last drawer of his chest of drawers, shoved right to the back inside a plain box that once housed his wand, Credence keeps his magpie’s hoard. 

They are, without exception, soft little luxuries that he would have never been allowed in the New Salem church: four clear glass beads, a skein of wine-dark velvet, the hem of a satin nightgown. One of Percival’s linen handkerchiefs, blue as midnight, that still smells of him. A pearl bracelet that Miss Queenie gifted him with a secret smile, that glimmers inside his hand.  Credence adores his little treasures, these little pieces of sin that, once, would have been unthinkable to touch let alone keep for himself. 

The crowning jewel of his collection is a pink silk ribbon. Magical silk, Sir had explained to him, woven by a specific type of insect that only lived inside a certain cave in Sicily. It would never break, Sir had said, as Credence stood before him, gently winding the pink silk ribbon over, under, around his wrists and forearms. 

Credence adores that length of ribbon. It reminds him of long evenings kneeling at Sir’s feet, the soft warmth of the crackling fire heating his soul from the inside out. Sir’s long fingers in his hair, tugging and carding. That still, silent place where Credence would sink to, where nothing touched him and nothing existed except Sir, a pool of still water unbroken. 

When Percival has left for the day Credence kneels before the chest of drawers, the box open on the floor. He takes turns turning shining gold buttons through his hands, stroking a glove made of leather, smoothing down the weave of the burgundy velvet. He winds the silk ribbon through his fingers, remembering the hungry look in Sir’s eyes, the hot, heady, dizzy feeling of his touch inside Credence’s thighs, the press of his hands on his hips, and the kisses that consumed him like the burning fire of the stake before his world exploded, nothing but soft silk and hot kiss and  _you, you, you._


	33. False Idol

He imagines the close cage of Mr Graves’ embrace. His countenance, dark and serious, as he stroked his thumb over Credence’s palm. God,  _god_ , he can’t help it. He can feel the prickle of sweat on his forehead, dripping down onto his neck and for a moment he imagines Mr Graves’ lips placed there instead, pressing hard kisses and little nips, sharp bites turning into sucks. Between his legs, he’s hard, impossibly hard, straining up into the mattress and against his belly.

In his mind, he kneels before Mr Graves like a heathen before a false idol, worshipful, idolatrous. He wants to press his mouth against Mr Graves’ stomach, his legs, wants to kiss every part of him, wants to make him feel good. He swallows, the thought heavy and sinful on his tongue.

He thinks what Mr Graves might look like, head tilted back, groaning. Perhaps he’d have one hand on Credence’s head, curled into his hair, pulling, tugging, making Credence’s eyes water, tears slipping down his cheeks.

He ruts up harder into the bed, sheet knotting up beneath him, eyes squeezing shut, spiralling towards a great cliff, mouth opening in a breathy wail –

Credence clutches at the sheets, his cock spilling out, thick rivulets of come streaming from between his legs. Mr Graves’ name is whispered on his lips.


	34. Chocolate

Mr Graves –  _Percival_  – blinks at him, nonplussed. “You’ve never had chocolate before?” he asks, sounding vaguely baffled.

Credence’s face grows unpleasantly warm. He twists his fingers together in his lap. “No, sir,” he says.

Mr Graves’ eyebrows furrow down over his eyes. “No chocolate?  _Ever_?”

Credence shakes his head.

“Deliverance Dane, just  _what_  did your mother feed you?” the man mutters to himself, rising from the chair and marching into the kitchen.

He’s back in a matter of moments, a flat little paper-and-foil bar in his hand. “Here,” he says, placing it on the table before Credence. “I think the situation calls for some of Goldthistle’s finest milk chocolate.”

The chocolate bar sits beside his plate, the stylized design of a flower slowly blooming and shrinking again, a morning glory bright in shades of purple and blue. Credence reaches out with a shaking finger to trace the paper petals. The wrapping crackles beneath his fingertip.

“Go on,” Mr Graves says, encouragingly.

“But – but sir, dinner –“ Credence tries helplessly.

“You must be the only person I know who would willingly turn down chocolate before dinner,” Mr Graves tells him drily. “Try some. You can have dinner afterwards.”

Credence picks it up. It’s lighter than he thought it would be; he’s seen chocolate and cocoa advertised in newspapers and shop windows, and Miss Tina and Miss Queenie offer him cups of hot cocoa every time he comes over. But he can’t bring himself to try it. He’s afraid of it, and what it represents: darkness, decadence, and the full abandonment of his old life. He is afraid of the unknown.

But with Mr Graves looking at him so expectantly –

He unwraps it quickly, before he has a chance to think too hard about it. He has the barest glimpse of glossy silky brown before cramming it into his mouth, determined to chew and swallow as fast as he can so that he might not covet it overmuch.

At least, that was his plan. The flavour explodes in his mouth – the same heady sweetness as cherries, but that’s like comparing a cloud to the ocean. It’s the softest thing he’s ever had against his tongue: velvet smooth, creamy soft, melting in his mouth, smoky like fire on damp wood, underpinned by rich sharpness like the aftertaste left by the scent of black coffee.

For a moment, he feels God has truly touched his soul; warmth sparks in his fingertips. He has tasted Heaven. It lingers on his tongue after he swallows.

He takes another bite, smaller this time, and another, focused entirely on how it tastes, how it feels, the sensation of his teeth sinking into soft chocolate with the barest resistance, silky smooth. Every time he chews brings another burst of flavour, dizzy sweet and heady dark, delicious.

When it’s gone he can’t help but lick the wrapper, tongue chasing into the folds of the wrapping paper. He sucks on his fingers, searching blindly for more. The taste of chocolate has dissipated from his tongue but he tries desperately to lick its remains from between his teeth, behind his gums, beneath his lips. All he can taste is hunger.

When he looks up at Mr Graves from beneath his eyelashes, hunger is reflected back at him.


	35. Gloria

“Anything you want, Credence,” Percival says. “Anything at all.” Very slowly, giving him plenty of time to back away, he raises his hand to Credence’s face.

A little sigh gusts through him as Percival’s palm settles on his cheek. His skin is warm and although Credence can feel the little bumps and calluses on the tips of his fingers, the heavy weight of his palm is perfectly soft on his cheek. For a moment, he allows himself to close his eyes and just bask in the feeling on someone’s gentle touch on his face. He cannot remember the last time, or indeed if ever anybody has ever touched him as softly as this.

But then a hot feeling begins to settle in his belly.  _Shame_ , a little voice hisses,  _shame and sin_. He should not taint poor Mr Graves with his sin. He’s been nothing but wonderfully kind to Credence, agreeing to take him in and teach him to stabilize his  magic so he won’t hurt anyone else with it. Credence’s eyes flutter open, and he swallow deliberately.

And yet. And yet.

Mr Graves is watching him, his eyes soft and liquid. Credence feels very exposed under those eyes.

“Wh-wh-what,” he swallows again, the saliva thick in his throat, “What sort of things could we do, sir?”

He hadn’t imagined it. Mr Graves’ pupils  _definitely_  blow wide, and then shrink a little again, and his mouth twists ever so slightly. Staring into those eyes he realises they aren’t black, as he’d thought at first, but there is a corona of gold just around the pupil, like a sunburst. Credence wants to lean forward – lean forward, close to him, and feel – and  _feel_  –


	36. Epiphany

“What are the flyers about?”

The man’s boots are polished to a high shine. The hem of his wool coat brushes mid-calf. His hand, where it reaches out, palm upturned, is large and uncalloused. Credence feels momentarily disquieted; this is not the sort of character who usually loiters around on Pike street.

He hands him a flyer silently. Further down the street, a housewife empties a bucket of dirty laundry water onto the road; the filthy water shines, rivulets chasing down into the gutter. A newspaper boy hawks his wares on the corner, voice high and warbling to make himself heard above the rattling din of the factories churning on the southside.

The man’s fingers catch his wrist and Credence flinches away, bringing the stack of pamphlets up to his chest, face turned down and away. His fingers encircle his wrist easily and he turns Credence’s palm gently. Blood has smeared the ink.

“You’re bleeding,” the man says, sounding surprised.

“Sorry, sir,” Credence mumbles. “I’ll get you another.” He tries to tug his hand away.

The man doesn’t let go; his grip is warm and solid. Despite himself, Credence glances up. Dark eyes stare down at him from beneath heavy brows. He has aquiline features, sharp cheekbones and proud jaw, a strong chin and Patrician nose. A man who is used to getting his way, used to having people do whatever he asks. Someone important, who is used to being listened to.  Credence can bear the sharp precision of his focus for precisely half a second before he quails, a field mouse beneath the predatory gaze of a raptor.

It is then that he spots the badge on the man’s elegant waistcoat. A stylized eagle wrought in iron is pinned to his chest. Credence’s eyes trace over it before his stomach seizes; he recognizes it, though when he last saw it the badge was silver and not gold.

“Do – do you,” Credence begins, glancing down the street nervously, “do you know Miss Tina?”

The man drops his wrist like he’s been scalded. “Miss – Tina?”

“Yes,” Credence says nervously, nodding at the badge. “She had a badge like that, too.”

The man stares at him for a long moment. “But – the Obliviation should have–“ he says, almost to himself.

Credence thinks perhaps he’s made a terrible mistake. The man is staring at him like he’s suddenly sprouted a second head and begun to sing; he does have very dark eyes, Credence thinks.

“Mr Barebone,” the man says, “has anything unusual ever happened to you?”


	37. Papa

Credence stumbles through awkward adolescence, long limbed and knock-kneed. Still he doesn’t present, and he breathes a tiny little sigh of aching relief. He is null; beta. At last, blessedly normal. His scent remains bland and unobtrusive. He can tiptoe through the house in the early mornings, nuzzling into sofas and jackets, investigating the smells, and he won’t be discovered. His smell doesn’t interrupt the sharp sweet smell of Alpha. He wants to remain like this forever, circling around his Papa like Ganymede circles Jupiter, fluttering and tentative. 

_(“Still nothing, Cree?” Papa asks him every few weeks over dinner that Credence has cooked for them. He takes pride in looking after his Papa; warm meals and clean clothes and a glass of whisky ready for him when he gets home in the evenings._

_“No, Papa,” he says, shaking his head. His hair is long and the curls bounce in the lamplight. Some nights, he ties it back with ribbon, because although he doesn’t say it, he knows Papa likes it best that way._

_He pretends not to notice the soft disappointment in his father’s gaze, and pushes his spaghetti around his plate.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet was continued and developed into a 7500-word one shot for [whileyoustillcan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/L_M_Biggs), who makes me smile. [Gossamer can be read here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11203164).


	38. Chasten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concept for [brittlelimbs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlelimbs).

Graves very sweetly sucks Credence off in his classroom one day after hours as a reward for doing so well in lately, but when Credence comes, whining and squirming, into Graves' mouth, Graves rises to his feet and spits the come straight back into Credence's open mouth.

"Keep it there," he growls against Credence's ear, and Credence stays, shaking and trembling with an open mouthful of his own come, while Graves masturbates hard and heavy before shoving him down to his knees and coming over his face with a strangled groan.

Credence kneels at the dais at the head of the classroom, shivering, open mouthed with a mix of his own milky come and his Alpha's dripping down his face and onto his uniform. Graves is watching him with vicious satisfaction as he takes his sweet time tucking himself back into his trousers and readjusting his suit and taking his seat at his desk. Credence is still kneeling upon the hardwood floor and looking out at the empty desks, eyelashes trembling against his cheeks. He begins to mark essays and it's not until Credence is swaying with unrestrained arousal and humiliation that he carelessly commands, "Swallow."


	39. Palimpsest

Grindelwald no longer haunts Credence’s nights. He will never again be afraid of the scorpions glittering at his throat, or the slick animal shine of his leather gloves, or the swirl of his heavy great coat. He will never again be afraid of his sneer, the way he shoved Credence against a wall and hissed _worthless_ at him. He will never again be afraid of dark alleyways.

He still flinches at the sound of belt buckles, though. He reflexively folds his hands together before each meal. Kneeling is enough to make his hands shake and the edges of his vision swim, sick and dizzy.

He cries out in terror in the night for a monster that is long since dead.

“Oh, my love,” Percival murmurs, half awake, gathering his shaking limbs in his arms and pressing gentle kisses to the damp nape of his neck and the lines of his shoulder blades, calming his shivers with even strokes of his palms. He follows the bump of his spine, the ladder rungs of his ribs, the silk soft down of his skin. Credence’s breath comes in high, whining gasps, glass thin in the silence of the bedroom.

He comes back to himself slowly, to the sound of Percival’s voice and the heaviness of the blanket against his skin, so different to the icy silence of the church and the threadbare sheets of the bed he grew up sleeping in. Percival has lit a _Lumos_ orb, golden light spilling forth steadily, unlike the cold light that flooded his childhood bedroom from the glass window.

“It’s alright,” Percival says to him, and he clings to the sound of his voice, drowning beneath the riptide of memory. “It’s alright. I’m here. You’re safe, darling. You’re safe.”


	40. Nero

Graves shoves his face down into the mattress, pushing him down into it so Credence can hardly breathe while he prepares him. Not too much - he’s just a filthy No Maj. A toy. A pet. So he only just bothers to hold his thighs open with his hips, one hand pressing down hard against the back of his head, the other holding his ass open as he spits into it, sharp and curt. He doesn’t bother with gentle or sweet. He pushes a finger in, all the way to the hilt, watching with a dark sort of pleasure as all of Credence’s limbs spasm and he makes a noise like a shot deer, a scream of an animal in death. His back bows and his fingers scrabble for purchase against the sheets, but Graves follows the bow of his spine ruthlessly, relentlessly, fucking his fingers up and in, the spit from his mouth doing nothing to tamp down the drag of Credence’s insides against his finger. He pulls out roughly and Credence’s entire body trembles again, breath bursting from him. His hole flutters against nothing. Graves clears his throat, hacking heavy spit against him, watching it dribble down and leaving gooseflesh in its wake.  _Click click_ , goes the buckle of his belt, and then he’s curled low, palm heavy and fingers unforgiving on Credence’s waist and mouth beside Credence’s cheek, whispering low and dark. “Don’t hold yourself back, now,” he says, lining himself up. “I want to hear you scream, baby boy.” 


	41. Cloying

“Credence,” Percival says, low and warning. His fingers bite tightly into Credence’s wrist; he imagines he hears the sparrow-fine bones grinding together beneath the strain of that voice, so heavy and full of darkness.

Credence’s eyes skip up along Mr Graves’ broad chest where it presses against the confines of his shirt, his wide shoulders where they fill the fabric of his dress shirt, his heavy forearms where they peek out from the rolled sleeves, skin rippling as his hand wraps around Credence’s wrist easily. This man dwarfs Credence in everyth aspect; his presence is so massive that it shields him. He imagines Mr Graves wrapped around him like the snake upon the Tree of Knowledge, a furious vengeful guardian. He wishes the grip might bruise, so that he could hold onto the memory a little longer.

“Yes, sir?” he asks, just as quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> Come tell me what else you'd like to see at [my tumblr!](http://kamikazesoundsociety.tumblr.com)


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